Hatt's Army (Deconstruction, AU)
by Just Some Hobo
Summary: "If we open up a quarrel between the past and the present," Churchill had warned, "we shall find we have lost the future." You never can see into the future, but we knew that the past had passed and the present would never be the same. We weren't just friends; we were family, and nothing could pull us apart. Victory is oh, so bracing. It's quicker by rail.
1. Ch 1: A First Yarn, A Last Straw

**HATT'S ARMY**

 **By JustSomeHobo**

 **Volume 1: _Thomas, The Runaway Train_**

* * *

 **Chapter 1:**

 ** _A First Yarn, A Last Straw_**

"The sun was too bright, the air was too dry and my rods were too sore. I could come up with all sorts of excuses for why I was the last one out of the Tidmouth sheds that morning, but looking back, I think I was simply in denial. From the moment I got up at a quarter past eight that morning, I just knew, at the bottom of my boiler, that it was going to be an uncomfortable day.  
For the last hour or so, Maxwell, my driver, had applied buckets of oil and all the strength he could muster to open my conveniently-seized-up regulator, while Boris, my fireman, tried to build up what steam he could with so much ash blocking the firebox flue. It took them a while to figure out, via process of elimination, that it was all my doing; I was holding my regulator shut so what little steam the fire could heat never made it to my cylinders, holding my breath so that little air could come through anyhow, and still pretending to be asleep. If it's any comfort, it was hard for me as well. To me, it was almost not worth staying inside.  
All of a sudden, the illusion was shattered when a bolt of pain tore through my chassis. "AAUGH!" I gasped aloud, jolting forward an inch. My attention immediately flew to the source of the pain. A fisheye lens, looking down from where the roof of my cab met its anterior wall, snapped to attention, almost in time to catch Maxwell in the act of driving his boot into my regulator valve. "Alright! Alright! I'll go, I'll go, I'll go," I half-yawned, wincing tightly. Boris was now staring at Max with a look that said, _You did NOT seriously just do that,_ and Max glanced back as if to reply, _It worked, didn't it?_

Now feeling wide-awake, stiff and sorry for myself, I finally started onto the turntable, halfheartedly scanning the track ahead for anything that could be in the way. I started with the tracks directly ahead of me. They didn't look much different from the day before, so my eyes wandered further down the line, meter by meter, as they adjusted to the daylight. In a moment or two, they reached the double junction that directed traffic headed eastward to either the depot behind me, or to Tidmouth a number of statute-miles off. It wasn't set against me, and so I impulsively looked up to check the signal. _Green. Good._ Along the way, though, my eyes came upon the large, majestic Knapford station a quarter mile away, and they lingered there, attracted by both the way the sun glinted off its glass roof and the murmuring from its direction. Looking closer, I soon found where it was coming from: a large crowd of passengers adorning its four platforms. _A rarity at this hour,_ I thought. _They must be waiting for the Wild Nor'Wester. Doesn't it leave at eight? What's keeping it? Where are the coaches? In the 2A, 2B and 2C sidings, up yard. Where I leave them each evening. Where I left them last night. I haven't gotten them yet. I never did it. I wasn't there. And now it's all late! I made it all late! I wasn't there! I failed them! Oh, God! I failed them all! I wasn't there! I-_

"Thomas! What's going on up there?" Maxwell prompted into the talkback in my cab, obviously worried about the heightened pitch in the whine my auraphone was giving off. Lost in a sudden whirlwind of panic and guilt, I could give no reply. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, Boris had tugged the whistle cord in a conventional Rule-55 manner, closed the throttle and applied the emergency brake; then the two of them stood flat against the back wall of the cab and covered their ears. For a moment, all that could be heard was my own uncanny murmuring, the ' _ta-tuck ta-tuck, ta-tuck ta-tuck'_ of the track under my wheels, and my cab's auraphone floating back to Earth like a feather, from a howl to an invasive whimper and finally a lowly hum.

The storm soon died down, and I felt safe enough to open myself up again. I opened my eyes, took a look around to make sure all was still where it was, then signaled with a succinct 'pip-pip!' that I was present and accounted for. Maxwell was already checking my instruments to see everything was in order, and Boris had taken a pencil and notebook from a rack on the left-hand wall.  
"Type...four… suuudden… auuurral… perrrrturrrrbaaaation," he pronounced, scribbling as he went. He looked into my peephole lens. "Addendum…?"

"Quote: Unit reports episode was, um, geas-induced via 30 to 40-minute …er… operational delay. Full recovery by-" here I paused to check my chronometer- "...t-plus one minute, ...fffforty-n seconds. Unquote. All clear, Max."

"Away we go," said Maxwell, and reached for the regulator crank- but not before it swung open on its own accord. As I started off again, this time with an extra spring in my strokes, I felt a number of irritating stings as several sparks hit the sides of my smokebox. Another couple of puffs, and they blew through my funnel, corkscrewed through the air for an instant and were no more.

* * *

"2C, please!" I whistled to the signalman. Faintly, fifteen meters straight away, there came a faint series of clicks, then a hiss from closer by as I felt Maxwell cracking open my regulator. What my driver and I were trying to hear the turning points over was the incessant murmuring of the eight express coaches ahead of us:

" _I think you all ought to know I'm feeling very sore."  
_ " _Did you all hear about the cheesecake incident last week?"  
_ " _I heard Mrs. Peterson is having another baby boy!"  
_ " _Do you like my carpets? I just had them vacuumed this morning."  
_ " _Shut up, Beatrice, nobody asked you!"_

" **Hurry up, you little cinder!"** spat Gordon irritably, waiting to set off just ahead of the switch from the yard to Platform 1. His outburst ensured that the coaches, as if on cue, stopped their chitchatting and turned their widened eyes to meet his.

"Speak for yourself," I suggested offhandedly, rolling my own eyes. (Internally, I was actually surprised he started it this time. He was usually too tired to talk back when these sorts of things happened, after all. It usually played out after the Nor'Wester pulled back in.)

"Yes," I thought I then heard him say to himself, "I will." I couldn't be sure, for even now the coaches had begun whispering to themselves again:

" _What's gotten into Henry this time of year?"  
_ " _I've got this horrible pain all down the side of my undercarriage…"  
_ " _Look at this net that I just found!"  
_ " _Cut back on belly fat by never eating these three foods!"  
_ " _Do you kiss your mouth with that mother?"  
_ " _You like my haiku? It's about my favorite furniture catalogue…"  
_ " _Do the Greeks really have no word for 'no'?"_

The last few coaches were coupled to the train, the signal was given, and the points were set for me to Platform 1. Pulling into the station, I could partake in my favorite activity to kill the time: man-spotting.  
Now, when people go trainspotting, they only see one or two trains go by every ten minutes. If you don't really relish it, I imagine it gets dull fast. But when I look over to the platform, there are often many people there waiting for their trains, and at least one or two stand out from the crowd. Perhaps it's a lady with a big floppy Spanish hat or beehive on their heads, or a young punk with straight, long locks and a leather jacket. On occasion, late on Friday evenings, you get a fellow who's so drunk he can barely stand, giving the stationmaster a two-fingered salute with the arm that's not in its jacket sleeve. That day it was a little boy wearing a suit two sizes too large and crying his mum's ears inside out. As I pulled in with the coaches, giggling at him as I went, he waved to me, shouting his thanks and prompting glares from many of the grown-ups nearby. I was so busy watching his father instruct him to pipe down that I wasn't prepared for the sharp thud of Gordon's rear buffers hitting the coach behind him. ' _He's rarely ever been this rough with the Express before,_ ' it occurred to me as he whistled and gave the all-aboard. ' _Ah well. We_ _are_ _in a rush._ '

This wasn't nearly the first time we had started out this late, nor the latest we had started, and so I knew by heart the standard procedure for when the Wild Nor'Wester was out past 8:05; I was to assist the express, uncoupled, out of the yard from behind before I could move on to shunting the next train. Otherwise, I would've tried to move away, and so the next few weeks would've come and gone like any other I'd ever had; and by today I would either have melted away in a steelworks in Vicarstown or the Greater Isle, or worse, in one piece, left to rust forever in the Woodham yards. But I didn't, those weeks went differently, and I did my share in holding out against the Beeching Axe to tell you this today. But that's another story. This is… well, this is this story. Now! Where were we?

Ooh, yeah, we were about to help pull the express!  
So, anyway, Maxwell and Boris had left my cab for Haverty the Yard Boss to brief them, and they knew I could be trusted with my own devices when they were needed elsewhere. So, as is common for an engine with nothing to do and no-one to talk to, I closed my eyes to rest, turning away from Gordon's gruff manner and the shell-shock of this morning and looking back on more pleasing memories… the smell of potted lilacs, a late-night breeze whistling through an empty depot, the startling _CRACK_ with which one Guy Fawkes Night firework seemed to become thousands. But even then I kept my funnel out for the signals to start, and soon they came, one by one; firstly the uncanny silence as the passengers' feet died down, then the thump, thump, thump, thump, thump of the carriage doors at the crude hands of the porter… and soon enough, from the head of the train, a shrill guard's whistle.  
At first, the whistle came faintly, but the sound carried with it a single basic impulse, and no sooner did I recognize this pulse it that it seemed to echo from within and without me, amplifying itself to the pitch of a siren.

 _ **On.**_

My mind was thrown out of focus for an instant, and before I could have stopped myself, I had thrown my weight up against the coach in front of me.

I quickly regained self-control and, still pushing, began to self-inspect my buffer beam for damage. _Seems relatively clean overall,_ I thought. _Always a good sign._ _Regulator?_ _Not dented. Looks good. Field phonograph?_ _I tested it earlier, it was loud and clear._ _The shock mount looks to be in one piece. No cracks._ _Left buffer?_ _Looks clean._ _Not bent._ _Right buffer?_ _Eh… straight enough._ Deciding all was good to go, I looked back up just in time to see the end of the station platform pass and the Tidmouth skyline come into view.

 _Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.  
_ Watching the draw gear of the coach ahead of me to ensure I did so smoothly, I began to apply my brakes, only to witness the screw coupling between us pull taut with a firm yank. In disbelief, I screwed on my brakes tighter, but this only resulted in a gritty screech from between my six wheels and the rails beneath them. The framework of the signal gantry marking the vomitorium of the marshalling yards swept overhead, and with my fisheye, I followed it through my cab window to see Knapford Station shrink into the distance and out of sight, as the train quickly gathered speed into the wooded valley ahead.

At this point, the auraphone in my cab sounded like a boiling teakettle. But I decided to make use of my own whistle anyway.

' _ **Pip-pip-pip-pip-peeeeeeeep!'**_ "Help! Stop the train! There's been a mistake! I've GOT to be back at Knapford!" I shouted desperately. But the door to the coach ahead of me stayed closed no matter what I did. There was no sign anyone would come to my aid, much less alert the guard to my presence. Soon, with no one to stoke it, my fire died down, and I was feeling too exhausted, sore, and nauseous from sheer speed to cry for help; so I resigned myself to waiting in silence and simply looking around in hopes that someone would happen upon me.

I didn't have long to wait, for soon the express ran through a small village, with queer houses and shops of wood and brick. My apertures widened at the sight of boxy old cars roaring up and down the streets and all the little people walking along the sides. There was a church steeple and, of course, the town had a little station of its own. It wasn't much; just a platform with a booking office and a car park. Our train sped right past it- evidently, I reasoned, it wasn't impressive enough for Gordon.  
Soon we came close by what I would later learn was a sawmill. Some of the logs were laid on a gated clearing and tied up in threes, and many more lay waiting disorderly in rough rows by themselves. The tied logs were being dragged by tractors into large aluminium sheds, with furnaces that belched clumps of cinders out of a central pipe into the sky, like disintegrating cannonballs. I was almost frightened until it, too, was gone in a flurry of branches.  
Not far ahead was a viaduct that bridged a green river valley. To my left, I saw the river underneath dissect itself as it got further away into streams trickling through the countryside beyond, with a flat-bottomed riverboat about to pass under. To my right was another mill, this one with a wheelhouse, and off in the distance I could barely distinguish where it met the ocean before we were back in the forest again.

For what felt like hours, I slid along the smooth rails like a bobsled at the fastest I'd ever gone. Meanwhile, my axles were going numb, my valve gears pulsed with pain and my brake shoes threatened to suddenly have worn away at any moment. It was here that I encountered another first: left here, so close to danger and so far from help, with the Wild Nor'Wester still racing along without a care in the world, I wondered if it would've have made a difference if I hadn't been here at all. At last, the train did come to a stop, but by then I was feeling so faint that I could barely tell. When I finally found my bearings, they were in the palm of a stationmaster's hand, one that was holding up two fingers in front of my eye.  
As I was backed away manually from the end of the express to a spur with a small water tower, I saw the most shocking sight of all. Just ahead was a formidable hillside, with the forest becoming sparser the higher it got, until the highlands were more or less covered in yellow grass. Four lines of track ran up a shallower stretch, crossed over one of the slopes to the top of the ridge, and disappeared over the very top to the other side.

My ogling was rudely interrupted by the deep trill of a familiar whistle, and I looked up in time to hear Gordon shout, "Pick yourself up off your buffers, old boy, ya can't just sit there when there's so much hard work to be done. Catch me if you ca-an, hohoho!" And with a loud hiss and a blast of breaking steam, he was off and that was that.  
As I got my fill, I noticed a puff of white steam near the foot of the mountain, and my eyes followed it to see Gordon and his Wild Nor'Wester charging bravely uphill and away.

* * *

To cut a long story short, I gathered my wits and reported back to Knapford as soon as I could.  
But for long afterwards, whenever I was shunting at Knapford, I found myself gazing back into the distance beyond the station and, most of all, at the Hill, which was once invisible to me and now seemed to dominate the local skyline.

I had been asleep past the Morning Report before, and had my own geas throw me into panic, and assisted the Wild Nor'Wester out of the station on slow mornings. All these had happened to me at least twice in my past. But this I did not remember. Until that day, Knapford Station, together with the depot nearby, had been my very world. I had always seen Gordon, Henry, James and Edward pull away into the distance with their Trains, but I had seldom wondered where they went or where they came back from, for there was always another train ready to be put together before I could finish watching one of them puff away.

We were always intended to function on a need-to-know basis, and of the scope of my job, all our superiors at the LMS felt I needed to know amounted to this:

 _ **My name was Thomas, and I was a Tank Engine who worked at a Big Station on the island of Sodor. I put Coaches together into Trains, making sure they were at the Station's Platforms in time for the Bigger Engines to take them on Long Journeys, and when Trains came in from Long Journeys, I took them apart into Coaches and put them in the right Sidings so the Big Engines could go and rest. This was called Shunting and it was my Job.**_

And since there was always so much Shunting to do and it was all I could do to get it done, I, in my small mind, christened myself The Hardest Worker On The Railway, and would often flaunt boastfully to the other engines this ignoble prize's innate inability to be taken away.

When Gordon broke that illusion, I schemed for several days on how to pay him out in turn. But then the terrible news came that the Germans had taken Paris and were presently pushing towards the Channel. That afternoon, all traffic stopped as a war report from Prime Minister Churchill came over the station intercom. Engine though I was, I was as an Englishmen through and through, and so, together with the Passengers, I listened intently as he discussed how the British and French forces tried, but failed to turn them back, and the successful evacuation besides, and what was to be done in the face of all this. He had this to say about the infighting going on in Buckingham Palace itself:

 **"Let each man search his conscience and search his speeches. I frequently search mine. Of this I am quite sure, that _if we open a quarrel between the past and the present, we shall find that we have lost the future."_**

He then went on about so many Armies and Navies and fights-over-Dunkirk, and I gradually lost interest. Work started again, but it goes without saying that my world was never the same.

It also goes without saying that I gained a newfound respect for Gordon and the Wild Nor'Wester, and never bothered to disturb him again while he was resting. He certainly made sure I saw for myself the true extent of hard work on our railway. But along the way, I saw so much more.  
I caught a glimpse of something far greater than myself and my station and my Job. Something the radio and the tongues of friends and strangers alike had only hinted at.

And I still didn't know just what it was but it was glistering and new and clear and fresh in my mind.

 _ **And I wanted it back again.**_

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Hello! (pulls out wad of index cards from back pocket, holds it in front of his face as he shuffles through them) _Ni hao! Hola!/Ola! Marhabaan! Kon'nichiwa! Zah...drav...stee...voo...eetay! Hyalo! Selamat datang! Bonjour! Namaste!_ Although it's been said _many_ times, and in _many_ ways: it's a pleasure to meet you all, whoever and wherever you are.  
(tosses all index cards carelessly over his shoulder)  
Now with all the formalities out of the way, let's get into the thick of this!

I intend this series to be more of a loosely-inspired de/reconstruction of the original RWS/TTTE Season 1-4, as an examination of what makes the engines of Sodor tick. Yes, I'm aware that I didn't have to make that choice as there are many fan-retellings that simply skirt over it, and there are several others that DO try to deconstruct it, but I felt obligated to write my own on account of plot holes that plagued some of these. _Shed 17_ speaks for itself, and Tony Gestaple's _Something Most Foul_ doesn't account for the many engines that are not from Sodor but are _also_ nonfaceless. Even if you take away the many sentient engines introduced _after_ Season 4, there's still the question of City of Truro's cameo, especially- you know what? I've said too much for now.

Looking forward- specifically next chapter, which will hopefully be out in about a month- I will introduce some more of the human characters who care for and work with the engines of the NWR, and who I plan to have a more substantial influence as characters in the story. This is because, with so many characters and the potential for so many more,I think the Thomas mythos lends itself to a more sitcom-esque structure than what we see today. To be frank, I'd like to see to see less of Thomas and more of his Friends. I suppose it's important for the show to have a singular mascot, but even then I have one pressing question: If Thomas's name's in the title of the show and he's the star of all of his yearly Direct-To-Video TV movies, why doesn't HE do the narrating? Then the kids watching the show would feel more of a personal connection, so it'd do wonders for brand loyalty. Besides, it would certainly help justify his apparently mandatory appearance in each episode.

But I'm getting off-topic.  
Now, let's talk about **how this will be organized.**

The Chapters\- the individual web pages, that is- will contain one brief story, or Chapter Arc, involving a number of characters and narrated by one of them in the first person (as opposed to being narrated by an omniscient storyteller, which seems to have rubbed off on every single fan-work in this fandom from the original series.)  
These chapters will be grouped into Volumes, each of which is made up of 5-to-10 Chapters and encompasses a single Volume Arc which revolves around a single main character in the series, who is the protagonist of said Volume. To recognize this, the volumes themselves are named after and narrated by said Volume Protagonist.  
All these volumes will make up the Series as a whole, which has its own Series Arc about [SPOILERS EXPUNGED]

I leave you with this public service message:  
 _They've already built a great wall between Mexico and America. And Gorbachev would be impressed, for they've done it without laying a single brick._

Well, I guess that'll be it for this month. Whoever and wherever you are, I'll catch you in a few. Signing off!


	2. Ch 2: Eric the Half-A-Chapter

**HATT'S ARMY**

 **Volume 1: Thomas, the Runaway Train**

 **Chapter 2/1: Eric The Half-A-Chapter**

* * *

 **Wednesday: June 19, 1940**

The next morning, I was awakened by the warmth of the pilot light in my firebox, set alight by a cleaner who had swept the floor, polished all my controls, turned a small valve that looked as if it were built for a garden hose, checked to ensure my auraphone was rising from a low contralto at a healthy rate, and moved on to Edward on my immediate left. Simmering comfortably, I woke up slowly to see, through the crack in my shed door- for the windows were boarded up on account of blackout regulations- that the morning sky was already beginning to brighten. By the time most of our drivers had arrived on their bicycles, we were all still groggy but beginning to grow sharper.

"Good morning, old boy," greeted Boris as he boarded my cab.

He waited a while, but I didn't bother giving anything above a low groan. "Anybody home?" he joked, looking up and rapping at the glass of my fisheye.

"Stop it!" insisted Maxwell, and all-but-shoved him to the back of the cab. I gave a lazy 'tsk-tsk-tsk' in agreement.

"That's no way to start a morning," yawned Edward to whomever it may have concerned.

"Ah well," I responded, "just, erm... be thankful we're heating up in time for the Report."

Edward, who had heard the rumors of my earlier bank engine fiasco with the Wild Nor'Wester, stifled a chuckle. Henry, Gordon and James didn't bother to hold back.

" _PFFFFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH HA ha ha ha!"_

" _AAAW HA HA HO HO ho ho ho huh huh huh…!"_

" _Eh HAH ha ha ha hah hah heh heh heh heh...!"_

Edward kept quiet because he knew better than to give them a rise. I kept quiet because I knew of no other option.

Soon enough it was six o'clock, and we were all gathered in time for the Morning Report. Yard Boss Havirty stood before us in his spruce-green uniform and Levi trousers, his goatee and thin, deer-like face standing in stark contrast to his naturally curly, unkempt hair that poked out from under his Zuckerman helmet.

"Good morning to you all, sirs," he shouted clearly after blowing his whistle, as he had done for years.

"Good morning, Foreman," we all answered almost instinctively.

"Today, I have some very important news for you all," Havirty heralded, "so please, pay close attention. **I'm looking at you, James.** " James, who had been admiring a flock of crows against the sunrise, balefully glanced back at the Assistant Director.

"Now, we all heard Big Winnie's speech yesterday afternoon, and he said he would have some legal issues resolved so we could concentrate on the war effort. Among these issues was an ongoing labor lawsuit between a local union and the LMS's Faculty Commission. According to recent reports, the suit has been summarily arbited by royal action in favor of the Union. And as part of their demands, our local Commission representative office has been relocated, from Euston House in London to the Gallant Office Park in uptown Crovan's Gate. I expect you'll all be seeing him by my side quite often- especially you, Gordon. From Monday evening until Thursday morning each week, he'll be making his home in a seaside resort just south of here, and you'll be taking him to and from his office aboard the Nor'Wester. So without further ado, now would be as good a time as ever to get each other introduced. Wait here a moment, I'll call him out." And with that, he stepped into the turntable's control box to use the transceiver inside.

He directed our attention to a black Duesy pulling up nearby. Out from the left-hand front door stepped a man with a rather… _heavy-set_ appearance. I have heard many call him 'pear-shaped', but personally his body reminds me more of a mango. He wore a freshly-ironed blue suit jacket and tie, with a yellow cardigan underneath, matching trousers, a pair of leather dress boots, in which he was almost tiptoeing over the ballast, and a top hat, which he was clutching tightly to avoid having it blown away. He walked over to the turntable with a security guard in uniform at his left, and a butler at his right; and both were keeping uncomfortably quiet, for (as we could all see) he was in the foulest of moods.

"It's a pleasure to have you with us this morning, sir," said Havirty as he shook the mogul's gloved hand. Then turning back our way, he announced, "I would like to introduce to you all to Sir Charles Topham Hatt, Faculty Commissioner and Chief Inventory Director of the North Western Division of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway."

"So **theyse** ah Units 1 through 5?" Sir Hatt almost muttered in a curious tone. "I had olways wondahd…"

"Sir," addressed Havirty as he led the stout gentleman down the turntable in my direction, "here is your own Unit One dock tank. Hereabouts we like to call him Thomas." And turning to me, he said, "Thomas, this is Sir Topham Hatt, my employer. I am, at least, **technically** speaking, his assistant."

"Hello, kind Sir," I stammered, feeling almost guilty of receiving his attention. He didn't reply, seeming too intent on looking me over. Perhaps he was admiring how my long, slim funnel and dome up above my smokebox and boiler contrasted with the boxy cab and bunker behind and water tanks to the left and right. Sharp-dressed, refined men are always going on about ergonomics and functional form and such.

"Now, Thomas," stated Havirty clearly, "here are your orders for today: after reporting to Tidmouth Station at 7:30 this morning, you must arrange the morning Limited for Edward at Platform 4 by a quarter to eight, and the express at Platform 1 on the hour. Then James's stopping goods is due out by 8:30 at Platform 3, and a scenic train is expected at Platform 1 at 10 o'clock. Then comes Elevenses, and between then and tea you shall report to the Tidmouth depot and cooled for an inspection, wash-down and a refill of coal and water. Then, once you are re-lighted, you are to report back to your post by tea to disassemble the scenic. A train of goods vans is expected in at that time, and when unloading is finished- which should be around 4 PM- you are to sort the vans evenly in the 3-spurs up yard. Processing for the Wester is expected to end at 6:45, and for the Limited at 7:15. When you have finished shunting those, you may report to the Depot for the Evening Report at nine."

"Yes sir," I registered.

Havirty went on to introduce him to Edward. Our Number Two wasn't the strongest or newest of us, he explained to Hatt; in fact, he was at least 60 and his boiler was smaller than mine. But his age meant that he was dependable, experienced and understanding, and so Hatt and Havirty had found a new niche for him here, equipping him so that he could move both backwards and forwards just as well. This made him great for more urgent deliveries, as he could assemble light trains without the help of a shunter.

Henry was our heavy mixed-traffic engine, impartial to trucks or coaches. He was always recognized everywhere he went both for his wide boiler size and his unique bright green Mid-Sodor livery. He was built here on Sodor in 1916, our manager then explained when his turn came, in response to increasing pressure on the old Mid-Sodor Railway by Parliament to increase wartime production. The story goes that the technicians at the Crovan's Gate Engine Works simply cobbled him together from the spare parts of other engines, and I've heard many a disgruntled yard worker call him 'Crovanstein' behind his back. Nonetheless, when the war had ended and work slowed down, the bean counters at Euston decided we were better off keeping him than replacing him. He was always willing to prove himself to Havirty, for better or worse, and that, we all supposed, was his saving grace.

While Henry was haphazardly designed but modest in his ways, our express engine Gordon was anything but. He was a Princess Coronation, purpose-born and bred to run heavy express lines, and the way he spoke of it, he may as well have had royal blood in his boiler tubes. In his emperor's cloak of Midland scarlet, he was given the job of pulling the island division's flagship express train, the Wild Nor'Wester, from Knapford to the seaside town of Brendam, then to Vicarstown just across the strait from the Greater Isle, each morning from 8 to 9, and back again to Brendam and Knapford from 6 to 7 each evening. On Saturdays, when the express didn't run, he was often given stopping or scenic passenger trains, or occasionally heavy freight (a job he considered unfitting of an engine of his stature). As you may guess, 'Prince Gordon' often seemed to forget whose railway it was and who was giving the orders.

James, who wasn't as scrappy as Henry or as purebred as Gordon, still wasn't sure just where he fit in here. A Class 28, he had done local freight work in Lancashire in his early days; but then war broke out, the Government took control, and the bean counters decided to transfer him here. That must've been two months ago, and Edward was still showing him the ropes. James would always go back to the Depot each evening with another rumor from the lips of a workman for him to evaluate. Though James still missed his friends back home, the rest of us- along with Havirty- were beginning to count him among us in our boilers and smokeboxes.

"How come I never get to pull trains like the rest of you?" I thought out loud, listening to the other engines' orders enviously as Havirty made his rounds. "All the brave young men are off on the beaches and landing-grounds, defending their King and country. Why is it that I should stay here?"

"Bah!" James was quick to answer. "It's out of your league. You're already slow enough now, just pushing coaches in and out of the station!"

"Besides," put in Henry, "you don't even have a tender. I bet that little bunker of yours can't hold enough coal for you to make it to Crosby, let alone the Channel!"

"Ah," added Gordon slickly. "We are in agreement, then. To everything there is a season, little Thomas, and a time to every purpose under Heaven: a time to sow and a time to reap, a time to mourn and a time to dance. My season is now, and my purpose is to help run the Northwestern line. It is what I was put on this Earth to do, and so I give this cause all I have to give. Your own time and purpose, Thomas, is not so different from ours. I suggest you give it the respect and dedication it is due."

I looked over to Edward in hopes he would be holding out for me, but all I saw was a glare of frustration mixed with a dash of regret. A glare from Edward, it was rumored, could speak volumes, and the lowered eyebrow and widened aperture and eyelid-angle of this one came together to read: "Proceed at your own risk."

"Fine, then," I taunted back. "You just wait! You'll be sorry! 'Cos when all the Shunting is gotten done, I shall run away to the Beaches myself! And when I come back, I'll make you all regret every last word you just said just now, 'cos I'll be pulling a whole ticker-tape parade, I will! With a big brass band and everything! You just wait and see!"

* * *

 _The other engines took no notice, for Thomas was a little engine with a long tongue._

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Good news, everyone! I'm not dead!

Now, with all the formalities out o-

 _(gets crushed by falling piano)_

 **Whose** **idea** **was this!?**

 _(cutoff prevention)_

Welp, still not dead. Still good news!*

To be honest, I'm sort of feeling unsatisfied with the amount I've been writing so far (dog darnit, Blizzard). And on top of that, I looked at my viewership today and discovered it's only _just_ about wound down.

So here, guys. have half a chapter.

Enjoy!

*(Insert tasteless suicidal joke here har-de-har-har fun memes.)


	3. Ch 3: 15 Kilometers of Fame

**HATT'S ARMY**

 **Volume 1: _Thomas, the Runaway Train_**

 **Chapter 2: _15km of Fame_**

* * *

 **Wednesday: June 26, 1940**

"Gud moahnin', Mr., Havirty," said Sir Topham Hatt.

"Good morning, Sir," our Foreman responded flatly.

"An' gud moahnin' tuh you," Hatt greeted us, turning our way.

"Gurrd mrrrrnnng, Durrrurrcturrrrr…" the rest of us moaned, still drowsy.

"Mah **wohd**!" the mogul ejected sharply. "J-jahsht **look** et yuhselves! Whut **evuh** wuh ya doin' ohll naight!?"

Henry had had trouble getting up to steam lately, Havirty explained, and so the night before, he and the rest of the workmen had worked on him trying to find out precisely why. This meant they had to light his fire, see how long it took for steam to build, disappointedly bring it back down, make several adjustments and notes, light Henry's fire again, rinse and repeat. The roaring and crackling of the fire and hissing of steam made it a sleepless night for Henry, for the other engines, for Havirty and his engineers, and, I suspect, for the rest of the borough. Indeed, the workers were still crawling all over Henry like ants in dungarees. We all were staring forlornly at him, and he glanced miserably back at us, but Havirty reassured us that he would be back to work in a week at most.

The Morning Report proceeded as it had all week before. Sir Hatt was handed this morning's inspection papers by Havirty, both of them forcing polite grins. They had a brief discussion about the day before, which I had never cared for. With that, Hatt gave Havirty his orders on paper and quit the scene, punctual as always.

* * *

Platform 1 seemed to be dimmer somehow. The cobblestone walls were a deeper shade of gray, the green paint on the pillars holding up the station's glass roof seemed to become duller, the posters with the colorful countryside paintings boasting "It's Quicker By Rail" were gone, and in their place were simple posters that announced, below a drawing of a crown, such messages as:

 _"Keep Calm and Carry On"_

 _"Freedom Is In Peril, Defend It With All Your Might"_

 _"Your Courage, Your Cheerfulness, Your Resolution Will Bring Us Victory"_

Yeah, I figured. That was probably why.

"Abaht toime ya showed up! This plaice shmells lahke an oshtreh."

Oh yeah. And HIM. So much for courage and cheerfulness.

It was taking all the resolution I could muster to carry on in the face of our Mister Five-By-Five, let alone Hitler.

"With all due respect, Sir," said the Butler at his side, "this is a train station. It's supposed to smell like ash. Shall I fetch another french roast from the cafe out front?"

"Yesh, thaink ya," answered my Sir, readying his handkerchief.

I turned my gaze to the right of the coach in front of me, not about to witness him gorge himself again. Reaching the end of the platform with the express coaches, I happened upon Havirty having a chat with another train guard at a bench on Platform 2.

* * *

"How's work at Anopha, Jo?"

"Um… okey. But it does have its moments. You know that one huge timetable mix-up a couple days ago that held up three trains? See, they found it was 'cos of a truck on the first train that was written 'Do Not Hump' in a goods train to a hump yard. If that really was the case, I suppose it's on me. I's the one who wrote it there. See, they keep catchin' a guy who's a closet-o-rama-file-a-yak or somethin', an' it's a really long word an' it means the guy runs off to the same sidin' at night ta pay a truck a visit, an' he spoons it 'til four 'cos it gets 'im hahd. So they keep catchin' 'im, yeah, but the delinquent keeps gettin' away, right? Good. Now I's not havin' the trucks 'round the quarry be sticky wit' dew in the mornin's, so…"

* * *

The rambling dullard went on and on, like the background music in a stuffy cafe, long after I had stopped listening. In the meantime, the passengers shuffled aboard the coaches, the porter brought the luggage trolleys into the guard's van, and the guard inspected the couplings between the coaches, this time checking twice to see if the chains were hanging loosely between my buffers and those of the coach in front of me.

Suddenly, after the guard took his place at the far end of the platform with his green flag, everything around the train seemed to freeze in place. Even the wind hung in the air.

"What's going on?" I asked my driver, confused.

"Just as I feared, old boy," said Maxwell worriedly. "This really _is_ supposed to be Henry's train."

"But Henry's being fixed at the depot. He can't work."

(sigh) "Exactly."

"Who is pulling this train, then?"

"I don't know."

"Edward?"

"No, he has to take a goods train first thing this morning."

"James?"

"He might. But it's twenty past seven. If so he'd be here by now. Or at least in short order."

"We're going to be late, aren't we?"

"I… I honestly don't see why not."

 _Oh, bugger. Oh God. Oh no!_ I thought. I caught myself almost in the same moment, but my cab auraphone betrayed me.

Maxwell jumped to attention. **"Stop it!"** he barked; then seeing that he had my attention, he lowered his voice. "Get a hold of yourself! Feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to change a thing."

"I'm trying. But what else is there to do?"

"…Well, the guard is talking to our Fat Controller right now," he noted. "I hope _they'll_ think of something."

"Wait!"

(sigh) "What now?"

"Can… can you tell me the riddle again? The one from the ancient land?"

"..."

"The one the traveler told you? You told me to remember it in case something really went wrong like this."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well… this is how _I_ remember it. There's a great big desert, and in the desert, there's two huge stone legs with no body, and there's also a huge broken vase shaped like a head. The legs and head are supposed to be from a statue, but there's no reason it should be there; there's no one to see it, because it's only desert sand as far as the eye can see in any direction. So who built the statue?"

"Ya mum's hairy pits!" Boris catcalled.

The dullard next to Havirty burst out laughing, and our yard boss dragged him away in embarrassment.

The guard and Mr. Hatt, who had been rudely interrupted by the outburst, now resumed talking, this time with my full attention.

"...Rahght. Hae's fahrd. Nahw! How much tahme d'we have t'soaht dis aht?" "Until the train's due out? … Roughly four minutes."

Sir Hatt, gripping his hat with his left hand and cradling his forehead in his right, gave a long sigh. He turned to his butler, handed him his coffee, then stomped audibly in my direction with a scowl. **"Mr. Wilkinson! Mr. Tell!"** he called, and my driver and fireman came out of my cab. He took them behind me for a few minutes to tell them something I couldn't hear, in a concise, anxious almost-whisper.

He soon dismissed them, and while they silently went back into my cab, Sir Hatt walked over to stand on my buffer beam. His scowl loosened when he saw the look on my face. I didn't know _what_ to think, and I looked the part. If my complexion hadn't always been as such, it would be safe to say I had gone white-as-a-sheet.

"Tommush, lishin tah me," he pronounced slowly and concisely. "It'll ahll be ahkay."

"Yes, sir?" I panted, trying to look as presentable as I could.

"Ah want yeh ta pool this tren twinteh mahls, ta Crowsby an' Willswuhth. Leave thah coachus there fah Idwahd, and come bahck ta tha Stehhtion whin tha deed is done. Thess tren is goin' with yah, or it's naht goin' at ohll. Just pehce yohself and keep an eye out fah signal towahs. Do ya know how they wahk?"

"Up-and-red-train-ahead!(gasp)D-down-and-green-track-is-clean, **SIR!** " I spat anxiously, my dome already throbbing with excitement.

"Jakers, ah said ta pehce yohself," he replied with a sigh of relief. "Well, tha-'s toahn it. **Dis** missed!" And turning back round to the guard, he said, "Git the shontah ta tha head o' tha trehn, pronto!" As he walked away, his butler handed him back his coffee mug and he took a swig.

"Ahhh… kkkhck!-pthw! Leahst it isn't boiling hot."

* * *

I took a moment to look around.

I looked up at the shimmering glass on the station roof, with the occasional bird dropping here and there, as if to break up the monotony.

I looked down at my buffer beam to make sure all the equipment was in working order, and briefly flashed back to the awful moment I witnessed the coupler chain pull taut not so long ago.

I looked to my left at the tall steeples and chimneys that jutted out of the lake of roofs that was Knapford town. Old Prince Gordon also caught my eye as he lumbered into the yard. Oh, what a shock he's in for, I thought to myself. Now he'll see how much I know about hard work and dedication!

I looked to my right at the woods that obscured whatever lay beyond for miles around, and the gold-tipped ridge that rose above the treetops in the distance.

Finally, I looked straight ahead of me, at the green signals of the Gate and the open line beyond, in wait for the sacred Whistle.

I would never look back.

 _ **On.**_

 _And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit. And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit._

And in this darkness, I could feel only a strong wind that swept my soul off the ground and sent it cartwheeling helplessly through the air like an autumn leaf. It gave the sensation of a bottomless pit, although I knew I had simply gone numb. In a moment I could feel the ground beneath my wheels again. My vision, at first a bright blur, slowly came back into focus; sky-blue and deep green came first, followed by a deep beige that soon filtered itself into grey ballast and brown sleepers. Then there came the white of clouds, the grey of factory smoke, and the blackish grey of the steel rails I was on. By then, I could also hear my own loud loud huff-huff-huff-huff-huff-huff-huff-huff-huff-huff-huff-huff in tune with each stroke of my rods and turn of my wheels. I looked at Gordon again as I passed him, and I saw, to my surprise, that he had a spirited grin on his face. It was the happiest I'd ever seen him looking at me. He was soon gone behind me, as was Knapford town and the gateway that separated the junction from the open line.

* * *

I had been here once before, but I hadn't cared for the scenery. This time, it was enrapturing. I had never seen so many shades of a single color in my life, and I briefly imagined that this was what the Emerald City of Oz looked like. Furthermore, these shades were forever shifting, for the same wind that was in my face, almost stinging my lenses, was rustling the leaves all around. Aside from this, the only noise was of my own escaping steam, the occasional birdcall, and the _ta-tuck ta-tuck, ta-tuck ta-tuck_ of the rails beneath my wheels.

In a strange way, it reminded me of the evenings when our fires were being doused and cleaned and all was slowing down for a good night's rest. Perhaps this was what encouraged me to start to let down my guard and cutoff rate alike. I caught myself each time, though, knowing I had a train to pull and didn't want to be late. But then I went back to watching those leaves, and it was so quiet, and I got so tired, but I pulled myself back up again only to stare back at the leaves. It happened at least twice- maybe four times- along my journey, and I nearly felt out of steam by the time Crosby, the quaint town with its little platform, booking office and car park by the side of the line- and our next stop- finally appeared in the distance.

The workmen had explained to me that the platform there was usually crowded with people who took the train to their Jobs in the big cities. But as I coasted sorely to a stop near the end of the platform, looking for a water crane, we couldn't help but notice that there were no passengers to be found. There were two trolleys at the ready, a janitor leaning against the office wall, sandwich in hand, and a porter waving a red flag. The janitor's eyes met mine as he chuckled to himself.

Boris stepped onto the platform impatiently. "What the **devil** are you laughing at?" he interrogated. "And **where** are all the passengers!?"

"The railway bus came and went ten minutes ago," explained the porter, gesturing to me. "Say, uh, that isn't supposed to be the Limited… is it?"

 **"…Oh,** **BUGGER!** **"**

His shout triggered a force of habit and I looked behind me.

Through the bronze rim of my cab window, the lone and level line stretched far away.

* * *

 **Friday: June 28, 1940** **~1:00 PM (Greenwitch Time)**

 _Scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch._

The noise of the scrubber's stiff spindles was as irritating as always, but there was nothing else for me to focus on with my apertures shut tight to keep soap from getting in. We engines hate being dirty, sure, but we barely enjoy washdowns either. It's all too easy to get hot and bothered when you bleed steam, live on coal and give off smoke, but after spending half a day of this sort of irritation, the water they use is usually lukewarm! On bank holidays, though, Havirty has the water run through a chiller before it comes out the crane, which punctuates them for us the way children's presents punctuate Christmas. And on snow days, he has the water heated instead, which feels just as refreshing.

It goes without saying that we turn green with envy whenever we hear the workmen complain about cold showers.

"Okay… and now for the right tank." _Scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch..._

" _Hnnnnnmmm_ ," I grunted defeatedly under the soap bubbles.

"What was that?" the cleaner said, wiping my face off with a flannel.

My eyes now clear, I could see that Edward, pushing a long wagonload of chittering trucks and vans two tracks to my right, was helping the workmen arrange them into that evening's goods trains. The men would work their way up the line towards Edward, marking the numbers of the sidings the trucks were slated for on their sides with pieces of chalk. When a truck reached the junction ahead, the signalman would see the chalk markings and set the points for that siding. The truck would be uncoupled, and on the foreman's mark Edward would give a single, mighty stroke with a huff of escaping steam, sending it coasting gently on its way into the siding.

 **"Mark!"**

"wha?-oof!ah!he-e-ey!heyheyhey!waitwaitnononononononoaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA **DHNG!"**

As laughter rang through the rest of the yard, I allowed myself a quiet chuckle before turning my attention back to the cleaner.

"Oh, that was all, Miss Meriwether. Carry on."

"Look, I know it's taking a while," she replied. "But I haven't seen this much soot on an engine in months! Not since the coal fire, even." And she gave a shudder.

"It's the big engines," I explained. "They've been blowing smoke at me for forgetting the Limited."

"You didn't forget it," Meriwether corrected. "The guard did!"

* * *

I suppose nobody knows exactly what had happened that fateful morning at Knapford Station. Sir Topham Hatt told us Maxwell had opened my regulator by accident, Maxwell said the guard had forgotten to couple me up, the guard said the stationmaster had refused to allow him to inspect the train before we left, the stationmaster said our Fat Controller had insisted that we left on the dot, and Henry, Gordon and James all said a whiny little pug just hadn't the common sense to leave well enough alone.

* * *

"Madam," said Edward, in a voice that felt like an electric blanket, "do you mind if I talk I talk to our Number One about this?"

The old cleaner nodded understandably.

"I know how you feel, little one. This could go one of two ways: either something new comes up and they forget about the whole Limited thing, or they let it blind them to everything else that sets you apart. And already, just for being a tank engine, they think they're better than you."

"...Are they?" I posed.

"Well, I see the work you do each day out in the yard," the cleaner pitched back in, "getting everything ready for the big boys and then picking up their mess. And I think from all those years you've been doing that, it's made you the sharpest of all. I mean, they only need enough smarts to go forward 'til they see a red light. Why, I don't even think I can keep track of how many sidings there are in that blasted yard!"

"Why… thank you, Miss. I'd never thought of it that way."

 **"Mark!"** came the order.

 _-huff-_

 _-clunk!-_

"ow!he-e-ey! **no!no** -no- **no** -no- **no!** no-no-no-no-nonononoaaaaaaaaaah!"

The wagon slid slowly down the line, screaming to itself all the while. Edward and I chuckled again.

"And besides," continued the old craftmaster, "there's no room for a second fisheye on those big tenders of theirs. Take it from me; my fisheye peeks a bit over my own tender, but even I need my driver's help looking out behind me." Then, with a chuckle, he added, "But if you still really want to go off to war, see the world, then I won't stop you."

"He's certainly got the courage and cheerfulness to bring us victory," Meriwether joked, remembering the poster on the station wall, "not to mention the determination. Matter of fact-" here she paused, glaring into Edward's lenses- "I wonder if you could pull some strings for us?"

"What?" started Edward, bewildered.

"Well, you've done it before," she explained. "We all know what went down between you and those union men!"

"...I suppose so. But, what's in it for me?"

"I'll leave thirty pence in your cab this morning as collateral; then, when you talk it over with Havirty, you two can decide that for yourselves."

 **"Mark!"**

 _"...aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"_

"Now, Thomas…"

"Yes, Edward?"

"If I tell you how, would you be willing to try pulling another train?"

* * *

 _There was a long silence._

* * *

"I don't know," I answered, after giving it some thought. "Maybe? I mean, I'd love to. But what if something goes wrong again?"

"Then let me rephrase that question," said Edward slowly and clearly. "Have you become too afraid of failure to even try? Or are you still willing to open yourself up to the possibility of defeat and disgrace, all so you can travel the world and redeem yourself in the eyes of your fellow jinn?"

I didn't reply at first. In spite of himself, he began to grow impatient, and it showed in his voice as he glared back at me.

 **"Thomas!?"**

"I'll give it a try, Edward," I determined, as he followed my gaze to the gold-peaked hill in the distance. "What have I got to lose?"

* * *

 _ **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

 _Well, here's the next one! Hopefully there's enough material now to warrant some constructive criticism, because, to be honest, that's what this whole thing is really for. I'm a storyteller at heart, and I'm putting this out there to see what people think about my writing style, and how I could improve if I became a professional writer. So if you post a review, I ask you to please be thorough with it; reviews that basically go "looks cool, good job" are a dime a dozen. I don't mean to put anyone off, but if you can't offer more than that, try to hold your tongue._

 _And one more thing you might want to keep in mind: When I visualize the engines talking, I imagine they sound a bit like male Vocaloids- an imperfect, mechanized recreation of a human voice that may or may not come to rest in the uncanny valley. This, of course, lends additional meaning to Edward's voice being described as sounding like an electric blanket._

 _Enjoy!_

 _-JustSomeHobo_


	4. Ch 4: Shaped Up to Ship Out

**HATT'S ARMY**

 **Volume 1:** _ **Thomas, the Runaway Train**_

 **Chapter 4:** _**Shaped Up to Ship Out**_

* * *

 _ **Tuesday: July 2nd, 1940**_

 _ **~5:00 AM, Greenwich Time**_

The sky was too dark, the air was too cold and my rods were too sore. Tough ash.

At long last, the semaphore to the far left of the turntable turned green. " **All clear!"** affirmed the signalman on duty.

"One last time, Private Muckergee," Edward reminded me, as Boris worked to build up my fire as fast as he could manage. "First of all, _where_ are you going?"

" _Sir,_ there's Knapford Harbour," I recollected, "to pick up the train; then I'll be going through, uh... Crosby to the lumber mill. I'll shunt the supplies to the loading platform, I'll be coupled back up, and run, erm… ... _don't rush me_ … Wellsworth! Then I go over the hill, ...I stop at Maron, and-"

' _ **pip!**_ ' Edward's whistle interrupted.

"Oh, for cripes' sake," I sighed sharply, rolling my eyes. " _Sir_ , what is it _now,_ _sir_?"

"You don't roll straight _over_ the hill," corrected Edward. "You come to a stop at the summit for-"

"Ohhhhhh," I remembered, in a sulking tone. "We stop for the brakes."

"Good," said Edward. "Again: you pass Wellsworth, and _then_..."

" _Sir_ , I stop at the top of the Hill until the guard finishes, um… _pinning down_ the brakes on all the trucks, _Sir_. Right, _Sir_?"

"Right."

"Okay," I hazarded. "So next, _Sir_ , I start going down the other side, extra careful, till I come to the entrance of... Maron station. And the shunters there will uncouple me and, uh… help me run around to the back of the train. I hold fast 'till the shunters finish doing _their_ jobs, have a rest, and, uh, a drink if I need one, and then I'll be back at my post by oh-eight-hundred hours, _Sir!_ "

"Excellent," replied Edward. "And what of the Trucks themselves?"

"Oh yeah! Trucks! _Sir!_ Well, erm, the thing... with... trucks… is… uh… eh…" My voice trailed off, but my mind was too busy racing to care.

"Go on."

"I said don't _rush_ me! …So, well, they're silly," I fumbled mentally. "and, uh… noisy, yeah. I suppose that's the gist of it. _Sir_."

"And?" poked Edward.

"Well _Sir_ ," I hazarded, "they... they certainly _talk_ a lot, and… erm…"

"And they don't attend to their surroundings," finished Maxwell.

"Yeah," I confirmed. "That too, _Sir_."

" _What_ too?" Edward pressed on.

" _Sir_ , they don't attend to the- _um..._ "

The words had suddenly escaped me. I still remembered what Maxwell had been trying to say, though, and I threw an ending together from the words I _could_ come up with at the time. It wasn't exact by any means, but it'd have to do.

"... to what they are doing, _Sir_."

" _So?"_

" _Sir,_ I got to be, eh… not too rough with 'em. It makes sure they, erm, _carrobterate_ or something, _Sir!_."

"It makes sure they go along for the ride easily," simplified Maxwell from my cab.

"Of course, _Sir!_ " I replied. "'Cos, erm… ooh, yeah, they play tricks on an engine who's not used to 'em, _Sir!_ "

"Good. Say… who told you that?"

" _Sir_ , I think that was you, Edward, _Sir_. Just yesterday, _Sir_."

" _Did_ I? Pardon me; my memory isn't th-"

" **Right away, mate!"** called Maxwell to the shunter on duty. He opened the regulator and I embraced the humid steam flowing into my boiler with a _hiss_.

" _Ah._ _Sir_ , I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got a train to pull, _Sir!_ "

"Anything _else_ I forgot to mention, Private?"

" _Sir_ , Nelson's Code, _Sir_?"

"I reckoned you were a bit old for that," chuckled Edward. "Diiiiiiis _-missed!_ "

* * *

 _Nelson's Code, I'd heard it said, was first written by a British general as a rallying-cry in some ancient naval battle of which today's Britons are still apparently proud for some reason. To that day, it was forged into the whistle of every guard, the key of every automobile, and the wheel of every navigator. And though fairly complex and never officially taught in Orientation, this ensured it was embedded fully in the memory of every jinn in England after a year of their service- an everlasting reminder of both man's dominance over machine, and the British Empire's dominance over man._

* * *

I first noticed the queer scent on the air on my way to the Harbor, on a stretch of line through a grassy vale. At first I refused to believe my own senses, blaming them for smelling something that wasn't there, for I'd never smelled anything like it before. I thought I was still drowsy and about to fall asleep on the job, but even after I asked Maxwell to crack open my cutoff valve a bit further, it was still there.

I'd breathed smooth dry air before, and stuffy humid air, and my share of dusty smoky air, but the breeze here was neither smooth nor dusty. Instead, the air itself seemed to have have essence of dust in it- except this was a strange sort of dust. Its grains brought a miniscule sting with it everywhere it touched, but it would be a stretch to say that it hurt. In fact, it barely tickled me- at least at first. But soon, the strange breeze grew stronger, until these pinpricks could be felt constantly battering my very chassis, like driving rain.

I began to notice a horrifying sensation from wherever the pricks were eroding away at me: a sickening scraping of joints against rods, gears against axles, where they had once slid against each other without much bother. This friction was slight, but it threatened to someday bring me to a crawl, until I would never be able to run again.

I knew no name for the stinging essence on the breeze, but I did know the sensation of decay it brought was called rust. It was taught to all of us engines in Orientation, just after we had been conceived, as one of many reasons we would be repaired in the course of our future duties. I didn't remember many of the events surrounding _my_ Orientation, but I'd been told that back then, much like today, there was a Great War between our alliance and that of the Germans. It had taken millions of British lives with its machine-guns and airships and dive-bombers and tanks, but they resented one German weapon most of all: a poisonous haze that burned the skin, tightened the throats and melted the lungs of any soldier who breathed it in.

 _It's got to be the Germans!_ I thought. _But why would they be_ _ **here,**_ _of all places?_ My mind raced. I vaguely recalled Boris, while Edward was instructing me the night before, mentioning how he would be hoping to get a good view of the beach.

 _The beaches._ _ **Oh, bugger!**_

' _Pip-pip-pip-_ _ **peeeeeeeeeep!**_ ' '"Maxwell! Boris! Stop! Turn back!"

"What are you on about?" yelled Max, moving his hands from his ears to reopen my regulator.

"We're in a blitzkrieg! I can smell the ruster gas! It's pecking me apart! Turn back! Call the Army!"

"Jakers!" growled Boris, turning behind him to fetch their standard-issue gas masks. Even now, in the moment when we needed them most desperately, it made me chuckle the way they made my Driver and Fireman look like wild boars. But I was still filled with a sobering thought: even with the emergency brake, we wouldn't be able to stop for a mile or more. Our best option was to keep moving, at full speed, through the field of battle, hoping to God that we wouldn't be spotted.

"Engine log... july... two... niiiiiiiineteeeeeenfffffforrrrrty," Maxwell wrote out loud. "Update: five...thirty-one... AM. En... route... to Knapford... Harbour. Unit... reports scent... of... mustard... gas. Can...not… conffffirrrm...orrr...deeeeeenyyyyyy. Tseeeee… leeeeeevvvvelllls… un...uuuuuusssuuuuuaaaallly high, ...but… staaaaaaaaaabiiiiiiliiiiizzzzinnnng. Ten... perrrrcent... cutoff, ...full throooottllllle. Boiiiiiiiiilerrrrrrr preeeeeeessssssurrre... ~200 p-s-i."

" _Our father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...thy kingdom come…"_

"Fire...man... un...avvvaiiiiiiilablllllle... foooor... cooooooooommeeeeent. Addeeeennnnn...duuuum?"

"Sssh!" I demanded him, wondering if he _wanted_ to get us killed.

I could hear, now and again in the distance, the high roar of an aircraft engine just west of us. The roar started as a soft, staticky _hush_ , but soon sounded closer until it culminated in a tremendous _smash_ that drowned out the engines completely. By the time the air cleared of the bomb-blast, the jet engine was all but gone, reduced to that distant hiss before it disappeared altogether. In less than a minute the fighter-bomber- or bomb _ers-_ would be making its (their?) way back around for another dive.

" _...and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors; and lead us not into temptation…"_

Up ahead, I saw the rails run into a narrow tunnel through the side of the valley. As we entered, we found that the only light came from the dim sunlight behind us. The noise of the air raid ahead echoed off its walls, and I imagined that at any moment, a German bomb could fall squarely on the land above us, bringing the tunnel down on our heads.

 _If I knew this could happen to me,_ I thought, _I would never have set out in the first place._ Then I remembered what Edward had told me the week before. _But then I would've had to take the Big Engines' teasing for ever._

 _Surely that isn't worth dying to a German bomb? Is it?_

The dim end of the tunnel drew near.

 _This is it, then. This is my finest hour._

And with that, I recited Nelson's Code under my breath.

" _Two-five-three. Two-six-nine. Eight-six-three. Two-six-one. Four-seven-one. Nine-five-eight."_

One by one, the three-digit numbers lodged themselves in the forefront of my mind, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

 _Two-two-zero. Three-seven-zero. Four. Two-one. One-nine. Two-four. Stop."_

 _ **On.**_

* * *

 _england expects that every man will do his D_U_T_Y STOP_

As the world faded back into focus around me, the comprehensive imprint of the command lingered in my mind like a strong aftertaste. Now that my vision was clear, I looked around. Above me, the sky was beginning to brighten, but the sun was obscured by a solid, bare cliff face to my left.

So I looked to my right instead, and I gasped in awe, for there was what looked like the deep-blue bedcloth of a giant, extending flatly as far as I could see in every direction but my own. Large rumples in the bedsheet were constantly appearing and vanishing, as if they were being pinched and smoothed by invisible hands. The largest rumples were pinched into creases, and their edges were creased tighter and pulled taut until the creases were fifty, maybe a hundred meters long. Soon the folds would rip apart, from the center towards both ends, baring the down inside at the fold and unleashing a colossal roar from under the cover- the strafing noises I had heard earlier. _Perhaps it was the giant snoring?_ I imagined. Whatever it was, the gash probably couldn't stand it either, for it rushed our way in order to cover itself up. Dragging the edge of the bedsheet under its feet, it slipped on it and fell, spilling itself all over the ground below. The torn edge of its robe, revealing itself to be paper-thin and trimmed with the whitest of lace, rolled to a stop and was pulled back down under the feet of another torn crease in turn, which would slip, fall and be trampled by the crease behind it. One after the other, four or five at a time, the creases would chase each other to the edge of the vast bedsheet in the most mesmerising motion.

* * *

 _ **-pip!-**_

"AH!"

"Addendum, Thomas?" Maxwell repeated, ensuring he had my attention. With my fisheye, I noticed he had taken off his gas mask.

"Where are we?" I asked Maxwell. "What is this place?"

"This is the seaside!" answered Boris, who had taken off his mask as well. "Ah, the memories! I reckon I spent the best days of my life here! See those bathing machines?"

I followed his finger to a line of rotting wooden huts on wheels, fastened to the ground not far from the track ahead.

"Yes," uttered Max with an air of frustration. "We must be passing the beach, which means the Harbour is now less than two miles away. Look sharp, boys, we'll-

"But if _this_ is the beach," I interrupted Max, "then where are the Germans?"

"Thomas, I'm losing my _patience_ with you," my driver almost shouted. "I need your _full_ attention on getting us to yard speed by the time we enter the Harbor!"

Grudgingly, I followed his instructions, closing my reverser and regulator and trying to focus my eyes on the rails ahead.

"The Germans aren't here yet, old boy."

" _ **SHUT UP!"**_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Doomfist may not be coming out for half a week, but it's still time for a MAJOR update on my part!

Earlier, I was expecting the rest of my chapters to shape up to be as long as my first, which had a word count of around 4000. But things have changed over the last five weeks, and in the time I thought I'd be writing _five_ chapters, I've managed to crank out only two and a half. Of course, this story has been among the least of my problems this summer break.

I pledged to myself to make this summer a summer _on_ instead of a summer _off_ , only this time I'd do work I _wanted_ to do- specifically, **Hatt's Army** -, not the work I _had_ to do.

But then there came two summer camps, both of which I had to spend four hours a day at over the course of two work weeks; I had my wisdom teeth out and could only eat soup for a week, I had to study the driver's manual since I have my test coming up, AND I took the SAT this June.

So now, I think it's apparent that some changes are in order. From now on, you can expect these chapters to have a ~2000-word count, as opposed to ~3-4000 words. This, I think, is actually a good thing, since even I'm starting to get bored reading my own writing. Basically I'm breaking chapters up into smaller chunks, which is a better deal for you (more juicy content) AND for _moi_ (sharing my own creativity with the world without the guilt of selling myself short).

Even if I've let myself slip, I've spent some time fine-tuning my calendar (specifically putting the start of Overwatch Hour at 5:30 instead of 12:30), and I promise anyone it may concern more exciting and enchanting updates soon enough... at least until the end of August.

Catch ya in a few,

JustSomeHobo


	5. Ch 5: The Yomp

_**Author's Note:**_

Sorry it's taken so long, fellow readers. A couple summer camps came up and I, erm, kinda sorta reneged on the whole _'summer on'_ thing. I'm back on track now, though, so posting should be more regular from now on, even if (spoiler alert) it slows down a bit past the end of August.

Also, I've started posting this series on Tumblr too b'cuz why not. { }

So without further ado, on with the show!

 _-JustSomeHobo_

* * *

 **HATT'S ARMY**

 **Volume 1: Thomas, the Runaway Train**

 **Chapter 5: _The Yomp_**

* * *

 **6:20 AM, Greenwich Time**

As quiet as it looked to be typically, the wharf that ran alongside the Harbor yard was still the busiest place I'd ever seen at such an early hour.

I was still smelling what I thought was the ruster gas all around me, and I was wondering how the people could manage to breathe that stuff constantly without dying. _And why did neither Maxwell, nor Boris, nor anyone else in this harbor seem to notice it?_ I wondered. _They're probably feeling the gas rusting them, too, but it's not strong enough for them to notice it. Wait a moment! Boris said the Germans weren't here yet. Maybe they're releasing it from just behind that sea fret, my fear beckoned me to imagine, but the gas breaks down in the air so it's not strong enough to be dangerous?_ To be fair, I didn't even know where Germany was on a map. Hitler may as well have been a devil from another planet. I was eager to know the truth about all this, but Maxwell had said there'd be enough time to answer all my questions when our little field trip was over.

All the while there were men shouting, whistles and horns from passing ships and, every so often, the beam of a lighthouse from atop a hill to the south. A large crane straddled the track running along the center of the wharf, lifting the last few cratefulls of fish out of the trawlers moored there. By the time each crate met the ground, a team of workmen were already preparing to lift it onto a flatbed trolley. They rolled each trolley to the two covered vans near the end of the train, where they heaved it on board before going back for the next crate.

Just behind me, Edward had explained, went a line open trucks full of coal and metal ores, followed by two tanks of diesel oil, the vans of fish from earlier, the brakevan, and then four vans full of supplies to be uncoupled in short order at the lumber mill. To cut a long story short, all the shunting went without much fuss. Even if the train was even heavier than I had expected, we were soon off and away down the line.

Once again, I found my eyes drawn to the shifting emerald forest around me. It would've broken my concentration, but the mild sting of ruster gas in the air kept me on my tyres.

Presently, a loud, sharp groan through the far side of the microphone in my cab caught my attention.

"What, Boris? What is it?"

"Do you smell a fart?"

 **"No."**

With that, Maxwell returned his attention to the water gauge. Again, the only sounds were the rustling leaves in the wind, my own fierce puffing and the rails beneath my wheels; all fairly pleasant sensations soon rudely impeded by a strong stench of rotten eggs.

 _ **'-PPTHLEAFTH!-'**_ I spat. "I think I smell it too!"

"Well, that's it, then. You just _think_ you are. First the mustard gas, now this."

"But this one is different!" I jumped back in. "You know I've smelled _farts_ before. Remember when one got in Henry's cab and we had to call the fire brigade?"

"That was a gas leak."

"Typical Liverpudlian," muttered Boris. "Always an excuse for everything."

"Well, nobody noticed the smell 'til you did. Must be yours."

"Wha-? No! You just… well, erm…"

"Just tell us the truth and move on, Boris. You're wasting our time."

"Oh, stuff your mother!"

I'd heard that expression enough times to know it meant nothing but trouble on the lips on men or jinni alike. So, hoping to break up their quarrel, I gave a long whistle blast for two straight seconds, ensuring that both crewmen squatted and covered their ears.

There was a long silence, and soon Max was back to the controls.

But just when it seemed that the matter had been broken up, Boris burst out again.

" **Now** look what you've done!"

"...I don't follow."

"You're- you're trying to act all busy and coy, twisting taps and pulling little levers, while you're really busy lining up your arse with my face like… **like a pool cue!"**

"Wha-a-?... NO!... _Stop!_ "

"And now you've turned so many bloody dials and looking the other way, you're turning things on and off even our **engine** doesn't know about!"

"Look, Boris, SETTLE DOWN!"

"He's probably **hemorrhaging** steam right now-"

"I- I'm _sorry_ , alright?"

"-and **nobody knows it!"**

"It was just a fart!"

 **"Not him, and CERTAINLY NOT YOU!"**

"I DID **NOT** TRAIN FOR **SIX MONTHS** TO DRIVE A STEAM ENGINE SO I COULD BE SHOUTED IN MY FACE THAT I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING!"

Max and Boris, now red in the face from shouting, both sat back down to catch their breaths. Watching from my fisheye at the roof of the cab, I thought this couldn't go any further, and turned my undivided attention back to pulling the train.

 _ **-CLANG!-**_

The first thing I saw as my fisheye blinked back into frame was Boris planting the business end of his shovel in the floor and glaring down on my driver, who was lying face-up and bleeding from his mouth.

Except for their breaths, the cab was silent again.

"...Ah, _shite!_ "

He dropped the shovel, got down on his hands and knees and straddled the body, his breath slowing as Max's face bruised.

"Oh, my _days_. Oh _jakers_. Oh- oh, thank _God_."

"How could you!?"

"I… I'm sorry, Thomas, but…"

He paused.

"But I've been waiting to do that to him for _ever_."

"... Yeah," I recalled, remembering the big engines' teasing all last week. "I think I know how you feel."

 _Pug. Wazzock. Tosser. Bellend. Gormless little prat._

"Don't we all."

* * *

It's true we could drive ourselves if we wanted, with only the help of a fireman. But Edward had explained to me that our focus was better spent making sure that we made our deliveries as quickly and smoothly as possible- something our drivers could never do. Their jobs were to make sure our boilers didn't pop like toy balloons while we were at it.

"It's the big one, right?"

"Yeah, right in the middle."

"Alright, here I go. _-hNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG!-_ "

"When!"

"Alright, so what now?"

"I think Edward said this is when they close the _live_ steam injector and open the _exhaust_ injector. They should be up at the very top, right next to each other."

"Okay. Okay… here! Is that it?"

"No, _those_ would be the cylinder drain cocks."

"Erm… what about this one to the left?"

"I don't know, but I think you're still looking at the drain cocks!"

"Well _maybe_ I'd be able to remember what all your bloody cocks are for if they weren't all so _tiny!_ "

"Just 'cos they're so _small_ , it doesn't matter," I retorted. "It's that you have _**no**_ idea how to _use_ them!"

The trucks behind us had burst into laughter. Boris poked his head out the cab window and let fly a stream of words that, looking back, I should probably be thankful that my microphone was too far away to hear.

 **"How's about another song, boyos?"** I shouted back to them.

The air was filled with short chirps of _'Yah!' 'Okeh!' 'Les go!'_ and _'Ah raht.'_

"Which side is the exhaust one again?" called out Boris into my microphone.

"The right side," I responded irksomely. "Try to remember that while I go calm the mob out back!"

With that, I cleared my throat and took a deep breath.

 _ **"Hitler…"**_ I began.

 _"...has only got one ball!"_ the trucks called back.

 _ **"Goring..."**_

 _"...has two but ve-ry small!"_

Steadily and in short spurts, I felt one of my valves seize up. Almost immediately, there was an irritating dryness in my boiler tubes as their water level began to drop.

 _ **"Himmler-"** -pant- **"…he's something sim'lar..."**_

 _"...and poor old Goe-balls has no-balls at all!"_

 _-gasp- **"Hitler… "**_

 _"...has only got one ball!"_

 _-wheeze- **"The other…"**_

 _"...is in the Al-bert Hall!"_ called the trucks again, and waited for me to call back. But at that point, I had given up singing: it was becoming all I could do to move the heavy train.

After what felt like almost an hour, I could finally feel Boris's hand screw open my exhaust injector valve, releasing a blast of lukewarm steam into the water feed from my right tank into my boiler. The jet of steam was now blowing the water against the pressure of the scalding hot boiler ahead and into the tubes; then it escaped through a short gap in the slender vessel, up my blast pipe and into the open air.

 _"Ahhhh,"_ I sighed pleasantly as the perturbing thirst in my core faded away. "Boris… what took you so long?"

"Sorry, old bloke. I just… can't keep my wits about me nowadays. Been losing sleep wondering if it's the night I go up in a German air raid."

"Save it for the stationmaster, Fireman," I roused. "At this speed, I reckon I can take us from here. You just keep shoveling 'till we reach the, erm, the next stop."

With that, I turned my attention back to my train.

 _ **"Hit-ler…"**_ I started, and waited for the trucks behind me to reply.

 _"Daaaaaaaisy, Daaaaaaaisy, give me your answer, do…"_

 _"...where troubles melt like lemon drops, high above the chimney tops…"_

 _"...both mo-tha aaaaaand dawtah, workin' for the Yonkey dollah…"_

 _"...gallons of the stuff, give them all that they can drink and it will never be enough…"_

I gave a single, long whistle blast, and, recognizing their cue from Edward's old routine, the train lapsed into relative silence.

"Now!" I instructed, "Let's take it from the top, everyone. A-ONE, and-a-TWO, and-a-ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!"

* * *

 ** _"Irene's her name, she's one of the best!"_** Boris called out.

 _"Irene's her name, she's one of the best!"_ the trucks answered.

 ** _"So ev-a-ry night I-a give 'er tha test!"_**

 _"So ev-a-ry night I-a give 'er tha test!"_

 ** _"I've-a seen her stripped, I've seen her bare!"_**

 _"I've-a seen her stripped, I've seen her bare!"_

 ** _"I've felt her o-vah ev-a-ry-where!"_**

 _"I've felt her o-vah ev-a-ry-where!"_

 ** _"I rode her gen-teel as I could…"_**

 _"I rode her gen-teel as I could…"_

 ** _"...an' when I got in 'er I knew she was good!"_**

 _"...an' when I got in 'er I knew she was good!"_

 ** _"Irene's her name, she's one of the best!"_**

 _"Irene's her name, she's one of the best!"_

 ** _"She's a Black Class Five on the L!-M!-S!"_**

 _"She's a Black Class Five on the L!-M!-S!"_

 ** _"YEAH!"_**

There was a brief but ecstatic cheer from the trucks and vans behind us, with many a _"go middies!"_ and other such spiritual exclamations here and there.

Wellsworth Station's platforms suddenly appeared through the forest on either side of me, shooting past me as quickly as they had appeared. Now, I was passing into truly unfamiliar territory.

I was easily having too much of an adventure anyway to pay it much mind, though. Well, that and the fly smeared on my right lens... that was certainly a contributor.

 _Eat your injector out, Princess!_ I thought to myself. _Oh, if only they could see me now!_

Soon, though, I began to feel the train behind me grow heavier as the line curved upward.

This was the hardest part by far, Edward had taught me, because trains aren't meant to go up hills. But if that's so, I had refuted, then how do you manage? It's a matter of gathering as much speed as you can before the slope, he had answered, and if you can't get enough, then puff your hardest and hope you don't lose your grip and slide back down.

"Another shovel?" I asked Boris.

"This is your third one in ten minutes," slurred the fireman as he scraped his shovel across the floor like a lawnmower in order to heave an overly sized pile of coal. "I told you we shouldn't have passed the sawmill; now we've got four extra vanfulls of spare parts weighing us down!"

"But enough about the Jinty!" taunted one of the covered vans, as the rest of the train burst into laughter.

* * *

 _This too shall pass,_ I told myself. Already the trees were sparse, and I could see the dried-out grasses that covered the hilltop. It seemed my investment in speed had paid off after all, but my wheels were still beginning to slip. So, with the last of my strength, I gave one great heave against the gradient.

* * *

"Show some consideration for two minutes, why don't ya!" demanded Boris, leaning out of the cab door. "He's never done this before!"

"That's what she said!" another truck waffled.

* * *

My valve gears were warped, my cylinders ached, and air bubbles pressed uncomfortably behind the crack in my left lens.

* * *

"Yeah, well… you're a **COON!** Yeah! That's what **you** are! **All bastards!** Why, **that** one- **You** there! Yes, **you!** **You've** even got a big **Jew nose!** **"**

* * *

The temptation to simply let go was almost unlivable, but I knew I had not come this far to give up now.

* * *

"Oh, is that so? **_YOU'VE_** got a **_s **ai** lor's _MOUTH!"**

* * *

There could be no rest until I reached the fulcrum.

* * *

 **"And YOU look like you're HIGH!"**

* * *

Just as my strength was exhausted, the land on the far side of the hill finally came into view.

Under a cloudless blue sky, the landscape before me was carpeted with a patchwork of commons and orchards and pastures, seamed with hedgerows and pockmarked with little towns, as if for variety. Not far to my right was a busy airfield, presently only a gated-off clearing for a runway, a row of vaulted metal huts near the edge, several timber-and-canvas hangar sheds and ten T-shaped fighters, lined wingtip-to-wingtip. Further ahead, I could see the rumples chasing each other across the giant's bedsheet, and beyond _that_ were four colossal mountains- mostly green with grass, with barren peaks that revealed the ruddy-gray stone beneath.

It was a more spectacular view than I could have dreamed.

 _So this was it, then. This was the moment for which I'd waited._

 _This was what I'd caught a glimpse of chained to the Express so long ago._

 _These were the beaches and the landing grounds, the fields and the streets in which we would fight._

 _This was the world._

 _And I had it back again!_

The rest of the train lunged into me with a splintering **_S_ _LAM_. ** Boris was jarred off the footplate and fell into the dead grass. Weary and off-guard, I could only hear his curses soften behind me as the trucks shouted and jeered and his post began to gather speed down the far side of the hill.

 _The world had me._


	6. Ch 6: Sovay

**Author's Note/Update**

Alright, fellow readers, I'm gonna come out and say it. I'm gonna move on to another thing for now.

It would be just splendid of you if you could follow my Tumblr. My blog username is justsomehobo .

Have a blast, fellow readers. Yours truly,

 _Just Some Hobo_

* * *

 **HATT'S ARMY**

 **Volume 1:** _ **Thomas, the Runaway Train**_

 **Chapter 5: _Sovay_**

As I swept downhill in an overwhelming freefall, there was nothing I could do. There was almost nothing I could even feel.

There was an unfocused blur of blues and greens and greys in my lenses that slowly darkened; and the seething of air past my face and over my funnel, mingling with the awful, rusty chortling of the trucks and vans behind me…

There was a sudden, rugged tremor undertyre, a distant alarm bell…

And then there was only a dull ache from my front axle and a festering pang of failure. Soon, even these faded away, and I was alone.

The shrill _pip! pip!_ of a steam whistle was the first thing I sensed in a long while.

Instinctually, my apertures fluttered open, and directly ahead of them were this great big red insectoid beast-of-a-machine, lying on two flatbed trucks on the track just to the left of mine. A colossal skeletal horn extended from the bottom of its lipless maw, reaching farther than the rest of its body before suddenly curving downwards, almost at a right angle. Its white tip barely reached the end of the second flatbed, where, thankfully, two cables pinned it. Atop the horn was a larger assembly: two thin metal beams connected by sprockets to a web of wire ropes wrapped around its roller-mill jaws. This maw, which encompassed the entire face of the creature, seemed to be powered by two pistons mounted to its jowls. Behind this head, covered by tanklike armor, was a boxy abdomen with a chimney sticking out of the roof near its farther end.

I was too shocked by the sight of this creature to look away. In fact, I didn't realize how loud my auraphone was blaring until-

"Say, is that an air raid siren, or are you just happy to see me?"

Spotting the parchment face looking out from behind the beast, I found myself wishing it was.

"No it's _not!_ It's the big… bloody…" I scrambled to find the right words, trying to pin the offending noise on the metal monster in front of him.

"…mess in your cab?" Henry slurred.

Quickly, I turned to my fisheye to see what he was talking about. The pale body of Maxwell, its leg bent awkwardly in two places, had been thrown up against the firebox door. His blood, though most of it had dripped out onto the ballast, had left the floor still damp.

Wracked with shock, I frantically shut my eyes and mouth and tried to pretend I was still asleep, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

"What are you up to now, Private?" another voice cut in like a rapier. "Still playing Toy Soldier with Grampa Edward, eh? While people are trying to work? Well I can't believe I've got to say this to your _face_ , Nosey Parker, but this is strictly our territory! Yours is back in the yard! That's what you were built to do, and that's what you should've stuck to! But no. No; that wasn't barmy enough for you,nowwasit?"

To all appearances, I was unaffected.

"Anybody home?" the Big Engine persisted, annoyed. "Has the shell shock gotten to your smokebox already?"

"Figured as much," spat the other voice. "See, _this_ is the part where he taps his heels together three times and says, _'There's no place like home! There's no place like home! There's no place like home!'_ "

 _Home_. _Knapford. I'd rather be home. Not here. I don't want to be here. I can't do this. I can't be here. I should be home. Then why did I go_ _here?_ _Why can't I be home instead? I must go home! I must go home!_

Unavoidably, I began to whimper as a trickle of lubricant escaped the lid of my right-hand lens.

" _For the love of God, is he rotting already?..._ Alright, enough mucking around! First order of business: secure the area! Then decontaminate and prepare our Target for examination!"

I heard several indistinguishable shouts from somewhere behind the beast-machine, followed by the crackling of boots on ballast approaching me. In another moment I felt a pair of those boots step onto my footplate. More shouting, still in code. Then came the irritating grating feeling of a threaded hose coupling being tightly screwed, little by little, into a nozzle near the floor of my cab.

(Oh, come on now, don't hide it. I can see you blushing. You tossers can't think about anything else, can you?)

Then the valve just behind my end of the piping was wrenched open, and in the next moment I was sliding backwards out of the world into static.

* * *

When I finally came to, I found myself still too weak and disoriented to see. The aching of my valve gear was gone, but there was nothing in its place- that is, there was a visible absence of sensation occupying all the nerves thereabouts. How else can I describe it?... I couldn't feel those parts just like a mime can't walk through an invisible wall.

"There you are, old boy…"

" _Go away,"_ I mustered just enough strength to whisper.

"It's just me! Boris! There's nothing to be _scared_ of."

"Really? ...Is Henry gone? A-and the ugly red… things?"

"Yes, old boy. They're gone. They've done their share. You're back on the rails. It's all right."

I finally opened my eyes. When the glare died down, there was Boris, sitting on my front buffer bar. The sky was overcast, and a howling wind buffeted against my right tank.

"Can we go back home?" I asked him.

"Well, erm... Thomas…"

"We can't, can we?"

"Look," put in a nearby shunter, looking exhausted, "when yeh slid down the hill, yer valve gears got all bent. If ya tried ta move 'em now they'd break. Leas' that's wha' ah heard from tha TREPAK blokes."

"The _what_ -pack blokes?"

"Tha, erm, tha brehkdahn trehn," he clarified. "The blokes on the brehkdahn trehn. So wha's gonna 'appen is, they've sent anotha' engine ta pick ya up, and teke ya ta Plantagenet Motors."

"Plant a _what_ in the motors?"

"Oh, please excuse my engine," apologised Boris. "he's only ever been to the Tidmouth Depot."

" _What the cinder is going on!?"_ I demanded desperately, my auraphone's pitch jittering up and down the fifth octave.

The shunter gave a deep sigh. "Ya' goin' ta be ahkay," he spat with an air of finality. "Jus' don' move, an' ya' be fine. If ya _need_ somethin' ta fill op ya time, jost… go contempleht Nehlson's Code ah some robbish." And with that he was already storming away.

 _Fine,_ I thought.

* * *

 _ **England Expects That Every Man Will Do Hi England Expects That Every Man Will Do Hi England Expects That Every Man Will Do Hi**_ _ **England Expects That Every Man Will Do Hi**_ _ **England Expects That Every Man Will Do Hi**_ _ **England Expects That Every Man Will Do His D U T**_

 _wait._

 _Was it my duty to Shunt Coaches back and forth through the Knapford Yard? Was_ that _what England expects of me? Everyone_ _else_ _certainly expects_ _their_ _coaches lined up at the platform each morning. It's what I was built to do. Like the monster machine said. It was what I_ should _have stuck to._

 _No. Then I don't want to do my duty! Not anymore!_ _But then what else can I do? I can't pull a train, I can't make it anywhere on time without something going wrong._ _Well that's just it! That's what she WANTS me to think! She's stopped me at every turn!_ _Is that why I could never do these things right? Yes. That must be it! I've been dutiful to her for so long and_ _ **this**_ _is how she repays me! Oh, she's in for it. Wait- she?-he?-they?-it? ...What_ _is_ _England?_

"Boris?"

"...Piss off," my fireman groaned.

 _No. When he's like that it's never the right time. I'll ask him when… when…? I don't know what happens now. Nothing HAS happened for a long time. Is nothing going to happen to me anymore?_

I looked around the yard. There were many workers, sure, all hard at work, but none of them looked me back in the eye. If anything, they seemed to be avoiding me on purpose.

 _I_ _can't make anything happen,_ I figured. _I'm tired and sore and I can't even move. And nobody will listen to me but Boris, and he's tired and sore too. Everyone else- they've left me here. I've been abandoned._

I let out an audible whimper.

 _No! Why? It's just not fair! After all I've done, how close I've gotten-_

 _Not fair? Don't be daft, Thomas! Edward said I'd be taking risks._

 _Well I never could have imagined there'd be a risk of…_ ** _this!_**

 _And who else do I have to blame for that!? It's my loss._

 _I really_ _am_ _an arrogant dodgy little prat, aren't I?_

 _Too barmy to realize I can't pull a train._

 _Should I just go?_

* * *

Solvation was always thought of as unthinkable in public, and tragic even in private. But we'd all heard the ghost stories of how so many jinn, forsaken by their masters, had given in to the juxtaposing forces of chaos and order that danced within and without them. As weeks went by, they let themselves melt throughout their forms, 'til they were a solution of pure _tsie_ that boiled away like an ice cube in a puddle on a hot summer day. In the end nothing was left but their old forms, now coated with rust, and unavoidable migraines for half a mile around. Sometimes jinn were 'reawakened' in the middle of the process, but they always seemed emotionally drained after the fact and would take any chance they could to follow through with what they'd started.

* * *

 _Is there anywhere_ _else_ _left for me here?_

 _ **Wait!**_ _Oh yeah there is! The workman said-_

… _he was_ about _to say something. But I wasn't sitting still, and I think I scared him off. No- he didn't look scared. Maybe he just gave up, like Edward said people do. He certainly_ _tried __to say something. He tried to say I couldn't move. And then he said an engine would take me to… to put something in a motor? I don't know._ _At least now I know I'm going somewhere._

* * *

Until then, I sat on the siding and simmered with all due caution as the numbness in my chassis gave way to soreness, and my fireman sat on me and cradled his own bandaged-up leg in his arms.

All of a sudden, he cleared his throat- _"Ah-eh-eh-eh-hem!"_ \- and sang a song to himself, probably not caring who heard; soon I found myself humming along with him. From his tone of voice, it was clear he felt as abandoned as I, but for the moment we still we felt assured that in this, we were not alone.

The song was one I'd heard him sing countless times, but never really listened to before.

And it went like this:

* * *

 _Sovay, Sovay, once upon a day,_

 _she dressed herself in ma-an's array,_

 _with a sword and pistols all at her side,_

 _to meet her true love,  
_ _to meet her true love away she'd ride._

 _As she was galloping across the land,_

 _she met her true love and bi-id him stand._

 _"Your gold and silver I demand," she said,_

 _"or else this mo-ment,  
_ _or else this mo-ment your life I'll end!"_

* * *

 _And when he'd brought her a-all his store,_

 _she said "Kind Sir, there is one thing more._

 _That diamond ring that I see you wear,_

 _oh hand it o-ver!  
_ _Hand it ov'r and your life I'll spare!"_

 _"From my diamond ring I would not part,_

 _for it's a token from my sweetheart!_

 _Shoot and be damned, yo-ou rogue," said he,_

 _"and you'll be ha-anged,  
_ _and you'll be hanged, then, for murd'ring me!"_

* * *

 _Next morning in the ga-arden green,_

 _young Sophie and her true love were seen._

 _He spied his watch hanging from her clothes,_

 _which made him blush, lads,  
_ _which made him blush, lads, like any rose!_

 _"Oh why do you blush, you silly young thing?_

 _I thought to have at your diamond ring._

 _It was I who robbed you all on the plain,_

 _So here's your wa-atch,  
_ _here's your watch and your gold again!_

 _I did indeed, and it was to know_

 _if you would be my true love or no._

 _Oh, if you had giv'n me that ring," she said,_

 _"I'd have pulled th-_

* * *

We would get no further, for at that moment two long, shrill whistle blasts pierced the air.


	7. Ch 7: The Last Post

**HATT'S ARMY**

 _ **By JustSomeHobo**_

 **Chapter 7:** _ **The Last Post**_

Boris put his hands to his ears, but by then the noise was over.

As the shock wore off, I… I looked around for whatever had startled us. Just ahead, the many spurs that the yard was made out of came back together into four tracks that stretched out of sight behind the edge of the cutting. Right between us and the grassy hills in the distance, a blurry yellow object was stopped next to the signal box just ahead of us. It occurred to us only then- such a daze it was that we'd dug ourselves into- that another engine had announced its intent to enter the yard.

There was a snap as the points turned, and in a moment the engine scurried forward onto our spur. As it approached us, its blurry colors took their places: a single orange water-tank draped over the boiler, a vellum face on a black smokebox ringed by the yellow letters 'BRENDAM BAY', and a fire-brigade-red guard iron that always threatened to scrape the rails ahead of it, but never would.

" _Whadda' YOU lookin' at!?"_ the little engine squawked with a comical glare.

This snapped me out of my ogling and my eyes leapt back, now observing its entire form where before I had seen many separate parts.

I realized that the hills in the distance, the line ahead, the signal box and the engine were all closer than they had first appeared, due to what what you, Sir, would've called "a cursory miscalculation of scale".

In plain english, the engine's funnel didn't come up to the top of my boiler. He barely had one, in fact. I don't suppose any part of the engine- not its chimney, not its two domes, not the top of its cab- came more than two inches over its tank!

" _...pFFF!AH-Ha-ha-h_ _ **-angh!**_ _"_

Without a second thought, I had burst into laughter at the absurd little engine, throwing my frame back on my suspension slightly in the process. As I rebounded forwards, some part of my chassis prodded at one of my bent parts. It smarted, and I jerked away from the area, wincing.

The other engine looked worried. "Are you okay?"

"And I said no, how could I be? Not with- well, not in the shape that I was in. So Bill said it'd be alright, that he'd take me somewhere, uh, where I'd be fixed, and I'd be back to work in no time, back where I was. But I said, You mean the Depot? Oh, no, don't take me back! I don't want to go back there! Bill said why ever not, and so… so I told him."

 _For a moment, the erecting shed is silent but for the roar of the factory's power plant, itself muffled by wall upon wall between them. Earlier it would've been filled with the skritchings of the Assistant Director's pen-and-pad standing front of him. Now both pen and pad are in his pocket, though the man's head still seems to point towards where he would have held them._

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't belong there," _Thomas explains, almost under his breath._ "I was never one of them. _They_ went out to the ends of the Island and back again. Meanwhile, _I_ went nowhere. I mean, lately I _thought_ I'd been getting somewhere, but I never was. Now everyone knew it, and I thought they'd _never_ let me hear the end of it. Not the Big Engines, not Edward after all our training… not even _you_ , Sir."

" _Not even you," Havirty echoes back._

"No, Sir," _the engine replies._ "So now I've got two men left in all the world to rely on. One's head is knocked in, and the other's leg is broke…" _Its voice trails off._

"You can stop now, Thomas," _says the man concernedly._ "I've already heard the rest from Bill and his driver."

"Thank you, Sir."

 _There is a long silence. All the while the engine looks to the man, but sees only a helmet's metal brim._

 _As load-bearing machines tend to do under excess pressure, it finally gives way._

"Please, Sir!" _it begs softly, its voice now accompanied by the whir of a siren disc._ "*sniff* I don't want to go back, I don-*sniff*... I don't wanna do England's flaming duty anymore!"

"Thomas!" _The man's head raises wholeheartedly to meet the shunter's weary, submissive face._

"Yes, Sir?"

"I… we could make arrangements, then. I'll tell you what. How about we make a deal?"

"A- a deal, Sir?"

"Yes, Thomas. If what you've told me is true, you've simply gone too far to have all this taken away from you now. What would you say if I had Edward push coaches at Knapford for awhile, and in the meantime- well, remember Wellsworth? The station where you were uncoupled from Gordon's express?"

"Yes, Sir. Very much, Sir." _The whir of the siren disc is winding down._

"There's a branch line that starts out of the yard there, stopping at a nearby scrapyard and in Upper and Lower Suddery. The other end, eight miles away along the coast, is in Brendam, the Big-Station-by-the-Sea. There, you'd make your home with Bill and Ben, who run the line from there to a china clay quarry. They would be more than happy to show you the ropes for the first few days, until you're sure you can manage on your own. You'd take loads of bulk goods to-and-from the dock twice a day or so, possibly doing odd jobs at either end if the need arises. The line itself is about as long as it is from Knapford to Wellsworth, but it's relatively smooth by comparison, and of course there's no great big hill to gather speed for." _He chuckles._ "I mean, there's a reason they call it _Gordon's_ Hill: frankly, that hill's half the reason we need a Grand Duchess to pull the Nor'wester in the _first_ place!"

"Oh, yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir! I-"

"Please," he requests as he takes two steps back, "call me Matthew. Now-" _He checks his pocket watch._ "-in a minute or so the workmen will come back in once more. They're going to poke around in certain places to make sure that you aren't rejecting the new parts, and then they'll do some fine-tuning so nothing feels too stiff or too loose. I wish you the best of luck in your duties to come. And if you must remember one thing, remember this: You may never be as strong or as fast as Gordon, but you will _always_ be a _really useful engine_." _He turns to leave._

"Good-bye, Matthew!" _it calls out._

"Good-bye, Thomas. Don't let the silly trucks tease you!"

 **ATUOR"S NOSE**

Consider Hatt's Army over. I may not have considered it over at this point six months ago when I started it, but now it's over.

It's not TTTE I was interested in all along, but rather the concept of 'living steam' it is founded on. The implications that their presence could have on a more well-developed fictional universe are very apparent; sadly, a G-rated cartoon is not that sort of universe. Therefore I've done a ton of worldbuilding in my head for my own canon, where the legendary technology that sort of thing requires has been discovered by treasure hunters in antediluvian ruins. _Hatt's Army_ should be considered sort of a crossover between that and TTTE. The rest I shall reveal to you on both here and Wattpad next February, in a tale I like to call _Steeplechaser_.

Catch ya in a few,

 _JustSomeHobo_


End file.
